Paul

Paul is a sad man. It's written on his face in lines that slide from the corner of his eyes like deep tears staining his drooping cheeks. Even his stubble is sad, poking out from jowl and soft chin, surely disappointed by the world that greets them with its inevitably rotten outcomes and hardluck.

Addictricity

Wired. Hooked up. Connected. Facebooked. Myspaced out. I am fucking 24/7, I am really flying man, at 24 megabits with my pixels on high-beam and my motherfuckin' screen all HD'd while I'm O.D.ing down the information superhighway with a joystick between my legs and my prick in my hands all juiced up over little Sally big-boobs smiling at me like sweet candy from a goddam-million-miles away.

I will strangle any and all comers with a fuckin broadband cable cause I learnt how to fight on Youtube and I will punch you right in the face and get a thousand hits and become a minor celebrity and fade into oblivion, but - and now, this is important - but I will make a comeback with a sextape and a cumshot shot with a gram of high-grade coke jammed up my nose and my cock lit up by a night-vision camera stuck up my freshly waxed butt.

Then, not too long into my reinvigorated sit-com career I will be scandalised by the discovery of pictures of my seven year-old niece on my paper-thin wi-fi capable laptop, and pictures of me hiding my head in shame beneath the shroud of a trendy neoprene vest will shoot around the earth via blutooth enabled touch-screen smartphones, leading to my eventual suicide while out on a million dollar bail, my neck limp and raw and wrapped snugly in a length of reliable, old-fashioned rope.

I can't wait for the movie to come out on DVD...